You Moved On
by Justthisfangirl
Summary: It's been three years since Reichenbach, and John's moved on.
1. Chapter 1

_Three years to the day. Molly did her job well. She's been good to me, hiding me like this, and I think I would even call her a friend. It's odd, that thought. Sherlock Holmes, having 'friends'. I'd even consider Lestrade... Greg, to be a friend. A good friend. Do good friends lie for each other? Because Molly and Greg did their fair share of lying to me. Lying to John. I was always there, wherever he was, just out of his sight, but close enough to protect him. After Moriarty, I've always been worried about what would happen to John. But then I realised. I was what had happened to John. Yes, he was in danger in the army, but he should have been safe, well, relatively safe, here. This was his home. Nobody should be endangered in their home. But I brought the danger to him. So I left. Left to protect him. That's what friends do. Friends are what protects people. When I left, I watched him grieve, I saw him cry, I saw him break down, and I could do nothing about it. Nothing at all. I couldn't stand by and watch him hurt. So I didn't watch. I turned away, and closed my eyes. Let John Hamish Watson, M.D., get on with his life. But now Molly is sick of me. Three years of devoting your life to someone can do that to a person. So she threw me out. Well, 'threw me out' in typical Molly fashion. Stumbling over her words, blushing furiously, and apologising repeatedly. But the message was clear. So I left._ Before I left, she thrust a crumpled piece of paper at me, folding my hand around it. I thrust it into my pocket and left.

And so now I'm standing here, double checking the scrap of paper, against the street sign to my left. I walk down the road, counting off the house numbers. 101...103...105...107...109. 109. This is it. I look at the house and my lip curls slightly. Typical suburbia. Very John. _Four bedroom. £200-250 thousand. Still working, paid well. Car, two, clearly sharing house. Who with? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?_ I hurry up the meticulously cut lawn. _Precise, still got the mindset of an army man._ I raise a shaking hand. Shaking? _Holmes, pull yourself together._ I lower my hand, and knock on the door sharply. A car alarm distracts me, and I turn away to look.

"Hello? Um, can I help you?" Male voice. John. I turn around, and Johns mouth falls open. "I-... Bu- ... Yo-" he gibbers, as I look him up and down critically. _Gained 20-30 pounds, obviously comfortable. Same taste in jumpers, better quality, more money, better paid. More wrinkles, stress? Glasses now. Reading glasses presumably. Work at the local surgery. Skin tanned, but fainter around glasses frame. Clearly just come back from abroad._ I glance at his shaking hands. I frown, taking in the fingers of his left hand. Seeing the plain gold band around his ring finger.

"Married?!" I mutter in disgust, still glaring at the band. His hands clench, hiding the ring from view, and I look back up at his face.

His brow furrowed, his mouth a thin line, he glares at me. "Married." I look at him silently.

"You bloody, bloody bastard." He says, leaning towards me. I lean back warily. Suddenly, he springs forward, leaping on me, gripping me tightly.

"You bastard." He says, inches away from my face. Then his face crumples, the glare gone, and he wraps his arms around me and sobs, sinking slowly to the ground, until he's clinging to my knees. I rest a hand on his head, lightly stroking it, as he cries.

"Daddy?" I look up sharply. A small boy, nearly two years old, a mop of dark blonde hair falling in his eyes, stands in the doorway, confusion on his face.

"Daddy." He repeated, "Who's this man?" John lets go of my knees, and wipes his eyes with shaking hands. He beckons the child closer, and holds him tightly.

"Well, Sherlock, I'd like you to meet someone very important." He says softly, looking straight ahead. I crouch down so I can hear him better, so I'm nearly eye level with the child. John turns his head and speaks to the child. "This man is a very good friend of mine. We knew each other a long time ago, a very, very long time ago." The child looks at him slightly, wrinkling his nose in confusion. John opens his mouth, goes to speak, but loses the words, and shuts it again. He breathes in deeply and tries again. "Ah, Sherlock, well, I'd like you to meet, well,... Sherlock."...


	2. Chapter 2

**I know this is really short, but I've been busy lately, actual life happened, but just a little update. Normal service will resume shortly, when I actually have something to procrastinate from...**

* * *

I walk into the sitting room of John's house silently, and quietly sit down on the sofa. John sits in the chair opposite me, leaning forward with his hands clasped in front of him, having shepherded Sherlock upstairs.  
"You named him Sherlock?" I ask incredulously.  
"Yes, Sherlock."  
"But why?"  
John sighed. "You were my best friend Sherlock, and you died. You died. I felt it was the least I could do. Keep you alive in some way. Took forever to convince Mary though."  
"Mary?"  
"My wife." John says simply, and looks away.  
"How did she die?"  
John snorted and shook his head. "I never got used to you doing that. Car crash. Last year."  
I nod, waiting for him to continue.  
"What do you want Sherlock? It's been three years. Why now, Sherlock?"  
"Why not now?"  
John glanced at me. "Getting sentimental, Sherlock? I thought caring wasn't an advantage. Mycroft told me that at your funeral. Your bloody funeral, Sherlock." His voice rose as he spoke, until he was shouting at me.  
"John, relax, you've just had a long day."  
John closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. "And how can you tell that, Sherlock? Is it my posture? The way I'm sitting? An ink stain on my hand? The number of times I blink a minute? What, Sherlock?"  
"Someone you thought was dead turned up on your doorstep. I can imagine its been a long day." I smirk.  
John shakes his head and smiles.  
"But, yes, the ink stain gave it away. It's green. You never write with green pen. Always black or red. Therefore you must have been busy, if it was the only pen you could find."  
"Whatever, Sherlock." John smiles, slowly. I smile back, warily. "John..." I say softly.  
"What?"  
"Do you want to move back to Baker Street?"  
John sighs. "I can't, Sherlock. I have a son. And the world of Sherlock Holmes is no place for Sherlock Watson."  
I smile softly, and John frowns. "Ok, that was unexpected. What's so funny about Sherlock Watson?"  
I shake my head, standing up to leave. "It's nothing, John."  
"No, Sherlock, tell me!" I turn and walk back to the front door.  
"I said it's nothing." I say, stepping out of the house, and turning to face John again.  
"And I said to tell me."  
"It's stupid." I say, glancing down.  
"Sherlock, stupid isn't even in your vocabulary, s-"  
"Evidently it is." I lift my eyes again, meeting his, smirking.  
"Figure of speech, Sherlock!" He shakes his head and grins. "Just tell me."  
"It's just, I always thought, if I played my cards right, that would be my name." I grin as John's face goes slack, his mouth hanging open. I turn and walk away, walk down the street, ignoring the shouts of "Sherlock! Sher- WAIT!" behind me.


End file.
